It was late at night when Sherlock stumbled into 221b, having staggered up each of the seventeen steps leading to the door. John was reclined on the couch until Sherlock collapsed, hitting the floor with a large thump. It didn't take long at all until the ex-army doctor leapt to his side, flicked his phone out of his back pocket and dialled 999.

The all-too familiar process started up.

"Emergency, which service do you require? Fire, police, or ambulance?"

"Ambulance." John shot back with an air of calm, knowing that he would have to save the panicking for some other time. This could be a matter of life or death, and he knew he wasn't about to let his flatmate die.

A different, but no less detached voice came through. "Hello, this is the ambulance. "

"Hi, my flatmate has just collapsed and his breathing's very slow." John allowed himself a second to breathe. "We need an ambulance to 221B Baker Street. I think he's overdosed on an opiate, possibly morphine."

"Sending an ambulance now. What makes you think that?"

"His lips are blue, the slow breathing mentioned before, and his increased clumsiness when he came back to the flat. I'm a doctor, so I should be able to tell. He's in the recovery position now. Checking his airways now. Nothing's blocked. Got him a blanket. In shock, I think. I'm worrying-"

"What's your name?"

"John. John Watson."

"Well, John, don't panic- it sounds like you know what you're doing and you're qualified to do it. An ambulance should be arriving shortly, so I suggest you stay with him. Make sure the paramedics can enter the apartment easily. You did say you live in an apartment, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well in that case, you should really make sure that the paramedics can enter easily and find your friend. I'm going to hang up now, as it seems you have it all under control. The best of luck, Dr. Watson. "

The incessant beeping of the disconnected call brought John back to what he had to do. Yes, it was a difficult task for one man to undertake, but- but then he realised. He didn't have to do it alone.

John shouted downstairs for Mrs. Hudson, and she came rushing up to the flat. For all her insistence that she wasn't their housekeeper, she did do an awful lot for the boys of Baker Street.

With Mrs. Hudson to help him, John continued keeping an eye on Sherlock while she went and cleared an entryway. John almost felt bad getting her to show people in to the flat so late at night, but then he remembered: those people were paramedics. Sherlock's life was reliant on him getting this right. On both of them- John, Mrs. Hudson, and the paramedics. Everyone would have to get it right for him to survive.

Speaking of, John looked down at his flatmate. Not only his flatmate, but his best friend of years. The man who made his psychosomatic limp vanish in a day- the man who would wake him up from night terrors with that obnoxious violin of his. Sherlock wasn't just any man, he was the one person John could trust that hadn't turned him away or betrayed it.

John focussed himself back on the moment, and on his patient. Thinking of Sherlock as a normal patient helped. John scanned him, looking up and down his body for symptoms. His breathing was much shallower now- and he barely had a pulse to speak of. It felt so strange, and so wrong to see Sherlock like this. Weak, limp, and out cold. A 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale. John hated being the strong one out of the two of them. He hated the number 3 even more- it was his least favourite number.

When the ambulance did arrive, the paramedics administered naloxone to Sherlock before placing him in. John had to sit in the backseat for the seemingly endless ride to the hospital. He left the paramedics to their work- knowing how frustrating it could be when another doctor tried to intervene. John tried to distract himself by journaling. He only stole a few furtive glances towards his best friend, the best man at his wedding…

Back to the journal. John would force himself to write everything down, to describe even his own emotions in the most excruciating detail. Ella told him to journal so she could better understand where he was coming from. Naturally, John wasn't the best at describing things, even when it was on a cushy couch in his therapist's office.

That's when the emotion hit him.